


Sign please

by green_violin_bow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Cricket Player John, First Meeting, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mycroft sends weird things in the post, Uni!lock, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 10:38:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7888030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock lived in John's room on campus last year, and now John keeps having to sign for weird parcels from one Mycroft Holmes. One day, enough's enough, and he goes to find the intended recipient of two (separately-delivered) smelly old boots, a fake passport and visa, a highly professional-looking set of lockpicks, and a fresh human brain...</p>
<p>From a Tumblr prompt by Alexxphoenix42 - thank you so much, hope you enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sign please

“Excuse me. Excuse me – hi? Yeah, I’m wondering if you could help me.”

The receptionist at Student Services fixed him with a baleful glare that would melt the resolve of a lesser man. John Watson, however, squared his shoulders and glared right back.

“Yes?” she asked, sounding less than interested.

“I need to find out the address of a current student. He lived in my room last year, and I’m still getting all his post. Parcels. Weird parcels.”

“Sorry,” she said, looking him up and down suspiciously. “We don’t give out the addresses of our students.”

John sighed, maintaining his temper with an effort. “I don’t think you understand. I’m also a student.” He handed over his student pass: _John Watson, age 22, Fourth-year Medicine._ “I just need to find this guy so I can get rid of all the weird post that keeps arriving, and convince him to change his address with whoever-it-is that keeps sending the parcels.”

“No, I don’t think _you_ understand,” she said, flatly. “We don’t give out addresses.” She pushed the pass back across the counter at him.

John took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. “Okay. Perhaps if I brought the post here, you could pass it on to him for me, and give him a message to change his address?”

“No, sorry,” she said, already shuffling some papers on a desk to her left. The phone rang, and she picked it up. “Student Services, how may I help you?” she intoned as John took a step back.

“Not well,” he muttered under his breath as he stamped away.

*

The next day, he grabbed Mike on their way out of the lecture hall. “Mike – Mike – sorry mate, have you got a sec?”

“Alright John, yeah, got a lab in a few minutes but fire away,” smiled Mike.

“Didn’t you live in Dillwyn last year? I’m there this year and having a bit of trouble with the guy who used to live in my room,” sighed John, drawing Mike to one side as they followed the flow of students out of the tiered hall.

“Oh yeah?” Mike looked amused. “What’s going on? Who is it?”

“I’m in D42–” said John, but he got no further because Mike was already letting out a hearty guffaw.

“Sherlock Holmes,” chuckled Mike. “What a surprise. What’s he done?”

“I’ve never even met him,” said John, rolling his eyes. “But I’ve had to sign for every bit of post he’s got since the start of the year. One of the packages was partially open, so I – I um – snooped a bit. It’s just a weird smelly old boot. There was a note from someone else with the same last name, so I assume it’s a member of his family sending him this crap. I thought he’d come and pick them up at some point, but it’s been months…” he ended on an exasperated shrug.

“No worries John. I can’t remember exactly where he’s living this year, and I do have a couple of modules with him but he never turns up to lectures. He might be at the lab this afternoon actually, he’s often around there working on mysterious experiments. I’ll ask him where his new room is and get you his number.” Mike started to edge away, obviously worried he’d be late for lab.

“Thanks so much Mike,” said John, clapping him on the shoulder. “I owe you a pint!” he waved to his friend’s back as he hurried away down the corridor.

*

A couple of hours later he received Mike’s text:

_Sherlock’s in Kearton this year, K17. His number’s 07224 848 221. Want to get that pint together on Friday?_

John replied that that sounded good, and saved the new number on his phone under _Holmes, Sherlock._ Then he thumbed open a new text:

_Hi, John Watson here, living in D42 this year. I’m still receiving items of your post from a Mycroft Holmes – think you need to let him know your address has changed! :) When would be a convenient time for me to come and drop off this stuff? John_ _._

He buried his head in his textbook, and an hour and a half passed. He checked his phone periodically, but there was nothing from Sherlock Holmes. Around four he sighed and stretched. Time to change for cricket practice.

He’d just started pulling his thick white jumper on when there was a knock at the door. He wrenched it open, smoothing his jumper into place. There was a delivery courier. “Delivery for Mister Holmes. Sign please,” he said.

John sighed. “He doesn’t live here anymore. I keep telling everyone–”

“Come on mate, sign please,” said the courier, fidgeting and looking at his watch. John narrowed his eyes at him, and signed. The man forced a kind of – coolbox? into his hands and hurried away down the corridor.

John sniffed crossly and deposited the carrier on his desk. He was going to look in this one, too, since Sherlock Holmes obviously wasn’t that bothered whether he received his post or not. He snapped the clasps on all four sides open, and lifted off the lid.

It was a human brain.

John swallowed, hard.

Of course he’d looked at slides of the human brain. Even cut into one. Examined them at close quarters, in the lab. But that was _in the lab,_ and this is _in his bedroom._ He pursed his lips again, and quite calmly put the lid back on. _Right._

He pulled on his trainers, made sure he had his pads, bat, water and spikes in his sports bag and swung it over his shoulder, strap diagonal across his chest. Then he collected up all the parcels he’d received on behalf of Sherlock Holmes into the biggest box (the one the _second_ boot had arrived in) and strode out of his room.

*

_Of course_ Kearton was an expensive accommodation. Double rooms with ensuite bathrooms. _Makes sense,_ thought John mutinously. _It’s always the posh bastards who like making everyone else’s life more difficult._ He found K17 and balanced the box on one arm as he banged none-too-gently at the door.

A few moments went by. No answer. John tipped his ear close to listen – yes, there was soft violin music coming from the other side of the door. He knocked again, even louder this time.

Still no answer. Infuriating. He knocked again. “Oi, Sherlock Holmes, I can hear you’re in there! Could you let me in please? It’s John Watson, I’ve got your stuff.”

“Go away,” shouted a surprisingly-deep voice from inside the room. “Busy!”

“Well that’s great,” returned John, at similar volume. “I’m not your personal bloody courier service. I’m leaving this crap in the corridor, but you might want to take a look at it sometime soon, since there’s an _actual human brain_ warming up in there.”

Suddenly the door was wrenched open, and John found himself looking at the chest of a tall, slim boy wearing an exceedingly ratty white cotton t-shirt, pyjama bottoms and a navy-blue dressing gown. Somehow he managed to make these look like the height of fashion.

Gaze travelling up, John’s wide eyes took in miles of pale neck, a delicate jawline, a full mouth with a frankly absurdly curved cupid’s bow, sculpted cheekbones, piercing silver eyes and a wild mess of dark, untamed curls. For a moment he was lost for words, and all he managed was “–unf.” Luckily, Sherlock Holmes was not paying attention, because he had wrenched the box out of John’s hands, and was bent over his desk, taking the lid off the coolbox.

John found his words. “Why the hell has someone in your family posted you a human brain?” was what he managed to say.

“My brother,” answered Sherlock automatically, although John could tell he wasn’t really listening. “It is unusually helpful of him.”

“Yes, but–” John stopped himself, took a breath. “So I wondered if you wouldn’t mind making sure that he knows your address has changed. I don’t really want to keep receiving parcels of old slashed up boots, what I assume is a fake passport, and highly professional-looking sets of lockpicks.”

“Oh no, couldn’t do that,” said Sherlock absently, poking at the brain with a scalpel. “Don’t want him to know I’ve moved.”

John was lost for words, again. “Right. But it’s not my job to keep accepting your post for you. I’ve got other things I could be using the room space for.” He was trying to remain calm, but frankly, Sherlock Holmes was starting to annoy the hell out of him, even if he was utterly, _utterly_ gorgeous.

“Nope, sorry,” replied Sherlock, standing up to look at him properly. His eyes flicked over John from head to toe. “No can do.” He moved towards the door, clearly intending to shut John out once and for all.

John took a firm step into the room. “Look, I don’t know where you think you get off, but I’m not your bloody flunkie–”

He was cut off by the torrent of words coming from Sherlock’s beautiful mouth. “No, you’re not, but you’re obviously extremely nosy, given that you felt you had the right to open all my parcels. As for your dubious assertion that you have other things to do with the room space, I highly doubt it, since you are obviously struggling financially and come from a family who have no chance of helping you with your tuition fees.” John bristled, his stance becoming defensive immediately. The boy’s eyes were narrowed on John’s face, watching for the effect of his words.

John simply gaped at him for a few seconds. “How the hell did you get all that?” he asked.

Sherlock looked nonplussed. “Well – your trainers and sports bag are both very old, although well cared-for. Your sports bag is marked in one corner with ‘HW’, which since your name is apparently John, suggests that it has been passed down from an older sibling. Since it is made of cheap materials, and has been mended several times – which no-one with money would bother to do – that suggests a family without extra disposable income. Probably your mother mended it for you before you came to university.”

John stared at him. The boy genuinely didn’t seem to realise how rude he had just been. Somehow, that took the sting out of it. “Oh,” he said, on an exhale. “Extraordinary.”

“What?” asked Sherlock Holmes, his eyes wide.

“All – that. Extraordinary. How you noticed that stuff.”

“Oh.” The boy’s high, cut-glass cheekbones were tinged with pink. He blinked several times, staring at John’s trainers.

There was an awkward silence.

“Right,” said John, into the quiet. “I’ll – I’ve got cricket practice, so I’ll just...be going.” He waited a few seconds. “If you could tell your brother to stop sending stuff to my room, that would be great.” He waited again, but the only response from Sherlock was another couple of blinks. “See you, then,” he said awkwardly, sliding towards the door. “Bye,” he muttered, as he walked off down the corridor, taking one last look at Sherlock Holmes’ wildly curly head.

*

Two days later, John was lying on his bed trying to memorise flashcards for the mock exam the next day. Just this exam between him and a night out with Mike and a few other mates from the team, and the weekend. Yeah, he’d have to work at the restaurant most of Saturday, but still. He sighed and wrenched his attention back to the flashcards.

The knock at his door was actually a welcome relief. For a second he allowed himself to imagine that it was Sherlock Holmes, come to tell him that he’d informed his brother about his change of address. And to apologise for shouting at him and being so brusque. And to invite him out for dinner, or a drink. And maybe to kiss him with those ridiculously full, sensual lips.

Then he groaned and threw himself off the bed, as another strident knock sounded at the door.

“Yes?” he pulled the door open. It was another courier, holding out a machine for his signature. He didn’t even bother to argue this time, just scrawled an unintelligible scribble and pushed it back at the man.

He closed the door behind him and stared at the label. Sherlock Holmes. Well, obviously he hadn’t seen fit to let his brother know. He pulled out his mobile and opened the camera app, then slit the tape on the box open with scissors. It was...a pair of black ballet shoes. Huh.

He settled them back into the box, protruding just a little, and snapped a picture. _Are these...yours?,_ he captioned it, and texted it over to Sherlock.

No response. He checked his mobile frequently as he revised, but nothing came through from Sherlock. _Obviously waiting for me to carry them over to him like his bloody butler,_ thought John, darkly.

*

It was a couple of hours later that a knock at the door roused him from what might have been a bit of a nap over his flashcards. John ran his hand through his hair and yawned as he opened the door, then bit his own tongue a bit as he realised who it was. Sherlock Holmes was already stepping into his space, pushing past him into his room.

He snatched up the box with the ballet shoes in, and made for the door without a word.

“Oi,” said John indignantly. Sherlock rounded on him, his eyes dark green today.

“I actually need these,” he snapped, “and I assume you won’t want them in your room. Wouldn’t want your _cricket mates_ seeing them.”

“Alright,” said John, taken aback. “But you need to sort out this issue with the post. Couldn’t you at least ask the Post Room to– wait, hang on a second, what’s that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock snorted slightly, glaring at him over his shoulder.

“No, don’t just bloody snort at me,” flared John, grabbing Sherlock’s arm. “What was all that about? Was that some sort of crack about me being bi? And that crap about the team? It’s not a secret.”

Sherlock pivoted on the spot and stared at him, his mouth forming a soft ‘o’. His cheeks were just faintly tinged with pink, again. And then he clutched the box to his chest, wrenched his arm from John’s grasp, and fled, leaving John bewildered.

*

Sunday morning. John lay in bed, legs aching from cricket practice yesterday morning, followed by a full afternoon and evening of work at the restaurant. He scrolled through the university intranet announcement board, looking for anything about ballet.

And there it was: University Ballet Show, Tuesday evening at 19:30. Tickets £5 for students, a few still available. He clicked in and bought a ticket.

*

He had to admit, he felt a bit stupid sitting in the audience, waiting for the show to begin. What the hell did he know about ballet? He didn’t even know if Sherlock would be dancing. This might be a giant flop. It wasn’t as though he had a whole lot of five-quid notes to go throwing around.

He carried on feeling stupid until the very last piece, the culmination of the show. Because the climax was Sherlock, performing a beautiful, heart-wrenching solo to a piece of violin music that sounded strangely familiar. And John couldn’t help but notice that the only thing he was wearing was a pair of very, very form-fitting dance tights. And eyeliner. And yes, he was tall and slim and lithe, but you could also see the sheer strength in every long, lean muscle and limb. John shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and covered his mouth with his hand. His lips felt sensitive, raw against the skin of his palm.

*

John could see his breath in the air, escaping him in bursts as he stamped his feet to keep them warm. He dug his hands further into his coat pockets. Every other bloody ballet dancer had already emerged, but Sherlock Holmes was either still inside, or had found another way to leave the building.

John checked his watch. He’d stay another five – well, ten – minutes, and then he’d leave.

It was then that the back door of the auditorium cracked open, and Sherlock Holmes stepped out. He was wearing light tracksuit bottoms, a pair of expensive-looking trainers, and a thin hoodie, pulled up over his head. He was rummaging in the sports bag slung over his shoulder. John felt a painful pang of awkwardness – bit stalkerish, lurking around back here. He cleared his throat, firmly. “Erm – Sherlock–” Not the most scintillating start, but still.

Sherlock came to a halt, wide-eyed. He was still a little flushed from the performance, and there were traces of eyeliner around both eyes. John swallowed, hard.

“Um – look. I saw your show. It was brilliant...I mean, you were brilliant.” He cleared his throat again. “And – and I wanted to apologise for the other day. I think I got overly defensive with you about the comment you made about the team. It probably wasn’t about me being bi or anything, I just took it the wrong way.”

Sherlock stared at him for a second, and then he licked his bottom lip. “I…was overly defensive too,” he said. “Or rather…offensive. Really. If we’re being accurate. Which I usually am,” he muttered. “I thought – when you texted me –” he paused, sighed. “At school, being gay and into ballet was enough to earn me a beating from any and all of the sports teams every week.” He stared at the floor. “The cricket team were the worst. I didn’t know you were–” He pressed his lips together. John couldn’t help the way his stomach flipped at the news that Sherlock was gay. He tried to steady his breathing.

He got the impression this might be the closest thing anyone ever got to an apology from Sherlock Holmes.

“Yeah, well, this team isn’t like that,” he smiled. “The captain’s in a relationship with some guy who left a couple of years ago, and two of the team are long-term. With each other.”

Sherlock flicked his eyes up. “Ah. Right.”

John stepped a little closer. “I was wondering…do you fancy getting a coffee sometime? You could tell me more about why your brother keeps posting you all this weird stuff. And deduce some more about my family from my haircut, or whatever.” He grinned nervously at Sherlock, holding eye contact. The other boy’s eyes were flickering back and forth over his face and between his eyes, perhaps checking for sincerity.

Eventually Sherlock seemed to make up his mind. “We could – I was planning to pop by the library on my way home. The coffee shop there’s open all night,” he said, tentatively.

“Great,” grinned John, a bubble of happiness bursting in his chest. That was when he noticed that Sherlock was shivering with cold, although he was doing a good job of not letting his teeth chatter. “You must be freezing, you idiot,” said John, pulling his coat off and draping it across Sherlock’s shoulders. “Put this on.”

He turned towards the library, thanking the stars he’d put on a thick woolly jumper before he left his room earlier. Nevertheless he dug his hands into his jeans pockets for warmth. He could feel Sherlock staring at the side of his face as he followed.

“You know,” said Sherlock quietly, “what you said when I deduced you. That’s not what people usually say.”

John glanced over at him. “Oh? What do they usually say?”

“Piss off,” replied Sherlock, shrugging one shoulder. But his eyes didn’t quite meet John’s.

John chuckled. “Right. No, well, that was brilliant.” And at last, Sherlock joined in, giggling too.


End file.
